Rebirth
by MissTea1304
Summary: Sherlock asks John a question, and John doesn't understand. Yet. One-Shot that may turn into a chapter fic.
1. Chapter 1

"Do you remember yet, John?"

John looked up from his laptop with a puzzled look on his face. Sherlock had been sitting silently for the past few hours, and John couldn't think what Sherlock was referring to.

"Pardon?" he asked.

"You usually remember by now." Sherlock replied.

"I don't know what you're talking about Sherlock. Are you asking me to make you tea in as cryptic a manner as possible?" John asked, exasperation leaking into his voice. It had been a very long day, and he just wanted to finish his blog post and go to bed. "Just tell me what I've forgotten already."

"Last time I told you before you started to remember, you tried to have me burned at the stake for witchcraft." Sherlock's voice was slightly sulky. "Of course, it was the 1500s, so I suppose I can forgive you for that. You had been raised to be a God-fearing man that time, and I should have realized how you would react."

John's mouth gaped open at his flatmate's comment. "Sherlock, what the hell are you talking about?"

"I have always wondered why I remember every detail of my lives and you recall so little. You start with a clean slate every time. No, not a clean slate, more like a new page of a notepad. The impressions of the previous pages are there, but they are faint, and can only be partially recreated." Sherlock mused.

"Your lives! What on Earth are you- No, you know what? I don't want to know what kind of psychological experiment you are trying to pull on me, I'm going to bed." John stood up, closing his laptop. Before he could move very far, Sherlock had sprung up from the couch and placed himself in John's way.

"John, I need you to remember. I need you back, I miss you." Sherlock had John by the shoulders and was staring intently into his eyes. "Think back. Think of when you used to be Ewan, the chieftain of our tribe and I was your shaman and advisor. Remember when they called me Merlin and you were the greatest king that has ever been. Remember when you fought the Romans, when you healed plague victims, when you saved me from myself. All our lives. Every time you have found me and made me better than I am without you. Please John. Remember." Sherlock couldn't stop his voice from cracking slightly.

"Sherlock, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm sorry, but I don't." John tried to say this as gently as he could. His friend had finally lost his grip on reality, and John started thinking of how he would get Sherlock to agree to treatment.

"Stop, stop thinking that I'm crazy. I'm not. You're always skeptical. In 1881, you stopped talking to me for two months because you didn't believe me. You thought you were imagining things when you started remembering. You called it 'fanciful thinking'. We even had the same names that time John! Doctor John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. That's why you moved in with me the second day we met. That's why you trusted a stranger. It's because I'm not a stranger. I never have been."

"You're saying we're what, soul-mates? Sherlock, that's preposterous. There's no such thing as reincarnation. I certainly have never been a chieftain or a king, and you are not a wizard."

"Don't be ridiculous, I wasn't then, either. They just didn't understand me, and called what I did magic instead of science." Sherlock sounded indignant at that. "Regardless, we _are_ soul-mates John. We are meant to be together. There are times when we can't find each other. Those are the worst lives, John. I envy you forgetting those ones." John was startled by the bleak, distant look that possessed Sherlock's face. "Last time-" Sherlock's voice was a monotone; as if he were distancing himself from what he was saying. He took a deep breath and started again. "Last time, I couldn't find you fast enough. You were killed in action, and I turned to drugs. I overdosed eventually. I like to think that is why I had my troubles before I found you this time, but I know it's because I was afraid it would happen again."

John was speechless. If this was a delusion of Sherlock's overworked mind, it was clearly a strong one. He almost wanted to believe. He almost wanted to be someone like what Sherlock described. A historic figure, a legendary being, reborn over and over, paired with this fascinating man for eternity.

They still stood in the middle of the living room, Sherlock gripping John's shoulders too tightly. John stepped back, and Sherlock let go of him, dropping his head to stare at the carpet. Running his hands over his face and through his hair, John tried to get a grip on the situation. Sherlock was always doing odd things, saying outlandish things, acting strangely, but this was a new level entirely.

"I don't even know what to say right now, Sherlock. This is too strange. This is worse than the time you filled the fridge with intestines. This is worse than the time you accused King George III of being an idiot for letting the taxes on the colonies get so high. This is worse than when you told Harry she should get tested for chlamydia."

Sherlock's head snapped up to look at John. "What did you just say?" John continued as if he hadn't heard.

"I mean, she was furious. She wouldn't talk to me for days! It didn't help any that you were right, either. Not that you're often wrong."

"Not that, the thing before it. About King George," Sherlock snapped.

"Well that one almost got us hanged, didn't it?" John sounded aggrieved. "You couldn't have been a bit more diplomatic?"

Sherlock grinned.

"What? What is so funny, Sherlock?"

"You do realize, my dear Watson, that King George III died in 1820?"

John gaped. His face paled and he started to sway. Before his friend could pass out from shock, Sherlock hustled him to the couch and pressed his head between his knees, rubbing his back soothingly and smiling. "Breathe. It's quite a shock, isn't it?"

"Sherlock?" John's voice was weak.

"Yes, John?"

"I remember now."


	2. Chapter 2

_The flames licked higher. She watched them creep closer, breathing through clenched teeth. She tried to keep the terror from swamping her mind. She would not give her murderers the satisfaction of seeing her fear. She would not struggle against her bonds. The Lord had called her to arms, and she had done her duty to Him. He would gather her to him, and she would be at peace._

_Searing pain distracted her attempts at serenity and, as reason left her, she focused on the man in front of her. She stared into his eyes until tears blurred her vision, until she-_

John awoke gasping, sweating, sobbing, tears streaming down his face. His body ached, remembering the feeling of his skin crisping and burning. As the pain and fear receded, he slowly became aware of his surroundings. His bedroom was dark, but recognizable. There was light pouring in from the hall through the doorway, and standing in the threshold was Sherlock. John couldn't see his face, but his posture was hunched and strained, his left hand still on the doorknob.

"You were screaming." His words dropped matter-of-factly into the dark room.

"I had another dream," John said. He wasn't sure if he was explaining or apologizing, or both.

It was the third night since John had first remembered, since Sherlock had forced him to remember. Once he had regained his breath from the shock his memory had given him, John had waved off Sherlock's offers of information. He wanted to get a firm grip on what he had just learned, before he swamped his brain with more. He had recognized the potential for a stress-induced breakdown easily.

It hadn't helped his fragile state of mind, and sense of self, when he had awoken that first morning from a very odd dream. The dream had been simple enough; he had been walking through a park in London on a summer day, and he had been chatting amiably with a young lady at his side. What had made the dream odd was the sense of absolute realism, and the fact he had _known_ that it was 1712. If he concentrated on the dream now, he could still feel the weight of his hat upon his head, the young lady's gloved hand upon his arm, and the weighty stare of her chaperone on his back.

The second night had been a repeat performance, of a sort. Standing upon a stone battlement, his armour had been heavy on his shoulders as he gazed out at the enemy encampment. Movement at his side drew his attention from the daunting sight to the man standing close at his side. The absolute trust and confidence he had for the other man, his second-in-command, had made him agree with the battle plan Matthew outlined. Surely they could not be anything but victorious when they stood together.

He had woken from those dreams confused and disoriented. The sights and sounds, the sensations and smells. The thoughts. The emotions. Fondness for the young lady (Elizabeth, his mind supplied). Resigned aggravation at the chaperone. Satisfaction at the profitable business deal he had concluded earlier in the day. Anxiety over the coming battle (not for himself, but for his men). Frustration at the long siege they had already withstood. Hope that this plan would break that siege. Warmth and comfort and release of tension brought on by his companion, Matthew's, presence.

He had slowly come to terms with the idea that the dreams were true memories from his past lives. They felt as real as his memories of Afghanistan, of his childhood with Harry, and his life on Baker Street. More real, certainly, in the case of this most recent memory.

"Will you tell me about it?" Sherlock's voice brought John out of his reverie. John's breathing had calmed, and the sweat on his skin was turning cold.

"Yes, but" John pulled his damp shirt away from his chest, "not right yet. I need a shower, and a minute more to calm down."

"I'll make some tea and meet you in the living room."

John looked at Sherlock's retreating back with surprise. Making tea was usually beneath Sherlock, and John appreciated the unspoken acknowledgement of the situation's seriousness.

The hot water did the trick, and John entered the living room twenty minutes later much closer to his normal state of calm. Sherlock was seated on the couch, with a tea tray on the small table before him. John sat at the other end with a deep sigh, and accepted the mug Sherlock handed him.

"How do you want to go about this, then?" John asked.

"Well, I think that is entirely up to you. You have questions, and I have answers. Admittedly, not all the answers," John raised an eyebrow at this unusual admission from his flatmate. "Yes, well, you don't have to look at me like that. I may remember my past lives, but I haven't been given a manual." Sherlock's affronted expression made John huff a quiet laugh into his mug.

John placed his tea gently on the table and asked his first question.

"You said something about your memories of these," John paused as if uncertain of the next words, "past lives. You remember yours more than I do?"

"Yes. I remember them all."

"All of them?" John's voice conveyed his shock.

"All of them."

"That must be-" John broke off.

"Yes. I find it weighs on me. Sometimes, I wish I were more like you." Sherlock studied John's lined face. "You live each life anew. Unburdened by your past until you are ready to remember."

"Is it always like this, then? You searching for me? Waiting for me to remember?"

Sherlock dropped his head against the back of the couch.

"Some lives are easier than others. Once, we grew up next door to each other," he smiled at the ceiling. "That was a good life. One of our most peaceful ones."

"So we do have quiet lives?" John asked, half teasing.

"Yes, some lives, we get to grow old."

"And some we don't." John's nightmare swept back over him, speckling his forehead with perspiration.

Sherlock's voice was quiet. "What did you remember?"

John looked at him, and their eyes met for the first time that night. His voice shook as his body remembered the pain and the fear. He turned away, focusing his gaze on his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

"Fire. I was tied to something, and it was on fire. There was a crowd, watching. And a man, in front, I was staring into his eyes as the fire-" John's voice cracked as his breath came too fast. He reached for his tea, his left hand trembling.

His fingers met warmth, and grasped reflexively. Sherlock had reached out simultaneously and wrapped his hand around John's.

"_Jeanne, ma pauvre Jeanne. Je vous empris! Pardonnez-moi, pardonnez-moi!"_ Sherlock's voice was cracked and strained, his body folded immediately into itself, shielding from some immense pain. John gripped his hand tighter, and shifted closer to him on the couch. Sherlock gasped and clutched at John's shoulder with his free hand, turning his face into John's neck.

"Sherlock, shhhhh. It's okay, I'm here now. I'm okay. We're both here." John murmured softly. He freed his hands to stroke gently up and down his friend's back.

"It was my fault. I tried, so hard. I tried to free you, but I wasn't clever enough. I wasn't powerful enough."

John pushed Sherlock away, far enough to look into his face and see the tears floating in his eyes, streaking down his pale face. "Sherlock, tell me what happened. Who were you? Who was I?"

"Jeanne. Jeanne d'Arc."

"Joan of Arc? You have to be kidding." John's fingers tightened on Sherlock's arms.

"You were amazing. Full of life and light. You were the closest thing I had ever seen to God's glory, then and now. You brought nations to their knees. And then, they caught you. They chained you up and tried you for being a woman. For daring to prove them all fools. And they made me your executioner."

John's hands dropped. His ears rang as he saw again the face of the man in the crowd. The name floated up from the depths of his mind. "Jean LeMaitre."

Tall, with piercing dark eyes, so unlike his current incarnation, and yet, there was a resemblance. A resonation. He saw it now. The two bodies were so very different, but they were exactly the same soul.

"At first, I tried to stay away. I thought they couldn't convict you without a chief inquisitor. They threatened me. I saw they were determined, and so I attended that farce of a trial. I tried to help you. I knew who you were then, the first time I saw you. I cursed God for putting you in such a position. For putting me where I could do no good, only harm. I tried to have you acquitted, and they stole your clothes so you had no choice but to go back on your word. I had to watch as I was outvoted. As they condemned you to death. As they set-"

John gasped. He felt dizzy. He either needed more air or less. Part of his brain was trying to figure out if he was suffering hyperoxia or hypoxia, and another part of his brain was telling that part to shut up and focus.

"Oh God, Sherlock. How do you live like this? How do you stand it?" John said breathlessly. They were clutched together again, wrapped tightly around each other, looking for warmth and strength.

John's hands moved up and down Sherlock's arms. His right thumb brushed lightly against the inside of his friend's elbow, and his mind easily supplied several ways that Sherlock might have dealt with his catalogue of lifetimes. From the slight tensing of Sherlock's frame, John knew that he was thinking the same thing. John murmured once more into the dark hair on his shoulder.

"I'm here now. It's okay. We're both here."

_A/N; Okay, so here's the deal. I've taken some liberties with the story of Jeanne d'Arc. Jean LeMaitre was indeed the chief inquisitor of her trial, and he reportedly refused to take part for about a month, and it is also reported that he was threatened into taking part. There are also mentions that Jeanne was offered a reduced sentence if she wore women's clothing once more, and she agreed. However, she once more started wearing her male clothing either because her other clothes were stolen or to prevent assault. Keep in mind this all occurred in 1431, and therefore reliable accounts are hard to come by. Please take no offense at my appropriation of her tragic but amazing story for my poor fanfiction, I meant no insult. (Sherlock's French is translated to "Jeanne, my poor Jeanne. I beg you! Forgive me, forgive me!)_

_Thank you all for your lovely reviews, even if I didn't respond to you personally, I had a little 'squee' of happiness every time I got a new notification (that includes those of you who added me to their alerts and this story to their favourites). I can only hope not to disappoint you with the continuation of the story. I have a bunch of plans for future chapters, but I would like to warn you now that I'm going to be doing NaNoWriMo, and I therefore may not be able to update this before December. Please don't despair, I have not abandoned this._


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